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Successful Rural Plays 

A Strong List From Which to Select lour 
Next Play 

FARM FOLsKS. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthuf. 
Lewis Tubes. For five male and six female characters. Time 
of playing, two hours and a half. One simple exterior, two 
easy interior scenes. Costumes, modern. Flora Goodwin, a 
farmer's daughter, is engaged to Philip Burleigh, a young New 
Yorker. Philip's mother wants him to marry a society woman, 
and by falsehoods makes Flora believe Philip does not love her. 
Dave Weston, who wants Flora himself, helps the deception by 
intercepting a letter from Philip to Flora. She agrees to marry 
Dave, but on the eve of their marriage Dave confesses, Philip 
learns the truth, and he and Flora are reunited. It is a simple 
plot, but full of speeches and situations that sway an audience 
afternately to tears and to laughter. 

HOME TIES. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthur 
Lewis Tubes. Characters, four male, five female. Plays two 
hours and a half. Scene, a simple interior — same for all four 
acts. Costumes, modern. One of the strongest plays Mr. Tubbs 
has written. Martin Winn's wife left him when his daughter 
Ruth was a baby. Harold Vincent, the nephew and adopted son 
of the man who has wronged Martin, makes love to Ruth Winn. 
She is also loved by Len Everett, a prosperous young farmer. 
When Martin discovers who Harold is, he orders him to leave 
Ruth. Harold, who does not love sincerely, yields. Ruth dis- 
covers she loves Len, but thinks she has lost him also. Then 
he comes back, and Ruth finds her happiness. 

THE OLD NEW KAMFSHIRE HOME. A New 

England Drama in Three Acts, by Frank Dumont. For seven 
males and four females. Time, two hours and a half. Costumes, 
modern. A play with a strong heart interest and pathos, yet rich 
in humor. Easy to act and very effective. A rural drama of 
the "Old Homstead" and "Way Down East" type. Two ex- 
terior scenes, one interior, all easy to set. Full of strong sit- 
uations and delightfully humorous passages. The kind of a play 
everybody understands and likes. 

THE OI.D DAIRY HOMESTEAD. A Rural Comedy 
in Three Acts, by Frank Dumont, For five males and four 
females. Time, two hours. Rural costumes. Scenes rural ex- 
terior and interior. An adventurer obtains a large sum of money 
from a farm house through the intimidation of the farmer's 
niece, whose husband he claims to be. Her escapes from the 
wiles of the villain and his female accomplice are both starting 
and novel. 

A WHITE MOUHTAIH EOT. A Strong Melodrama in 
Five Acts, by Charles Townsend. For seven males and four 
females, and three supers. Time, two hours and twenty minutes. 
One exterior, three interiors. Costumes easy. The hero, a 
country lad, twice saves the life of a banker's daughter, which 
results in their betrothal. A scoundrelly clerk has the banker 
in his power, but the White Mountain boy finds a way to check- 
mate his schemes, saves the banker, and wins the girL 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



The Seashell 

A Comedy in One Act 



By 
FULLERTON L. WALDO 




PHILADELPHIA 
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

19 2 1 



tt^ 

^ 



Copyright 1921 by The Penn Publishing Company 



«TheSeasheU»_ ©Gi.D 57140 

W^ 17 1921. 



"The Seasheir 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Tom Archer, - - Harvard Senior, Head Clerk of *^ The 
Seas hell f*' Eelgrass Harbor 
Luke Litchfield, - Haverford Sophomore^ Bell-boy No. i 
Marvin Safford - Princeton Sophomore^ Bell-boy No, 2 
Lesley Warriner, Bryn Mawr Senior, pretty, ^ 

fashionably dressed 
Mrs. Plympton, middle-aged and self-important 
Mrs. Amidol, very stout 
Doctor Thorax, black-bearded 
Professor Chalkley, bald and white-bearded 

Time of Playing : — A half hour^ 
Costumes : — Modern. 



Guests. 



PROPERTIES 



Desk, and accessories (register, etc.). Four rocking- 
chairs. Towel. Mirror. Settee. Clock. Calendar, 
nighly colored. Two books. Razor. 



SCENE PLOT 



£A/TPAA/C£ A/VO £XtT 




Scene.— The rotunda of "The Seashell." Clerk's 
desk down r. Two windows at l. Facing the win- 
dows, and fairly close to them, are four basket-bot- 
tomed rocking-chairs. Exit and entrance back c. 
Settee left c. Door down l. in front, opening to the 
verandah. 



"The Seashell" 



SCENE,— The rotunda of " The Seashell," Eelgrass 
Harbor. Time. — Any summer morning, early. 

(The curtain rises on the hotel "rotunda," a rather 
large name for the cheerfully cheerless space, flooded 
with the morning sun, in front of the desk, rectangu- 
larly occupied with four basket-bottomed rocking- 
chairs that are more blessed to give than to receive. 
The chairs face the two windows at the left, and, 
fairly close to the windows, leaving the center free, 
have their backs to the desk at the right. It is early 
morning, and only the bell-boys and the Head Clerk 
are in sight, but probably sausages and buckwheat 
cakes are aromatic in the offing. The Head Clerk, 
his coat off, a towel round his throat, is shaving him- 
self before a mirror at the desk; the bell-boys, on a 
settee under the garish clock and the lurid life-in- 
surance calendar at the back of the stage, in the 
center, are studying Cicero and Plane Geometry, re- 
spectively, with might and main. The usual door 
of entrance and exit is betzveen their settee and the 
desk: there is another door this side of the windows 
at the left, in front, opening to the verandah.) 

Archer {as he wipes off the razor, pulls the towel 
from his neck, puts on his coat, and disposes of the 
shaving implements') . It's lucky for you fellows you 
don't dance. If you had to man the pumps every night 
the way I do, I guess you wouldn't be on deck any 
earlier than I am. Now and then I got a dance with 
Miss Warriner, but dancing with the other women was 
like rolling milk-cans. (Both bell-boys are absorbed in 



6 THE SEASHELL" 

their studies, occasionally scratching their heads and 
turning pages. Archer sends one hell-hoy out.) 
And now for the morning mail. {Reaches for a 
hundle of letters in the desk and hegins distributing 
them to their several pigeonholes, whistling gaily. As 
letters accumulate in one of the pigeonholes at the 
expense of the rest, the whistling hecomes more and 
more duhious and dolorous, until finally it stops alto- 
gether.) Say, that's the fifth letter this week from 
the same fellow for Miss Warriner! What chance 
have I got against a fellow that hasn't anything to do 
but stay away from here and write to her ? 

(He has not noticed that while he stands with the 
letters in his hands, facing the pigeonholes, Miss 
Warriner has entered. For a moment she contem- 
plates him with suppressed amusement. ) 

Miss Warriner. Now, Mr. Archer, you don't 
really think I am getting more than my share, do you ? 
(Archer, startled, drops the letters so that some of 
them fall on the floor at her feet.) Don't you bother ! 
I'll pick them up. 

(Archer comes rushing round from hehind the desk. 
Their heads come close together as they simultane- 
ously stoop for the letters.) 

Archer. Miss Warriner 

Miss Warriner. Well? 

Archer. I only wanted to say — that I do wish we 
could get a chance for a few words together without 
some of these pesky guests butting in. 

Miss Warriner. It would be nice, wouldn't it? 

Archer. It was awfully kind of you to give me all 
those dances last night. 

Miss Warriner. Well, you know, you were really 
the only man there was to dance with. 

Archer. I suppose you want your letters. 

Miss Warriner. Oh, no, I'm not in such a hurry 
as all that. 

Archer, You — you must be hungry. 



THE SEASHELL JT 

Miss Warriner. No, not very. My breakfast took 
away my appetite. 

Archer. Don't you like this hotel ? 

Miss Warriner, {making a wry face). The an- 
swer is, I'm leaving on the noon train. 

Archer {blankly). You're going away to-day? 

Miss Warriner. Yes. 

Archer {reproachfully). And you never told me 
last night. 

Miss Warriner. But I didn't know till the tele- 
gram came this morning. 

Archer {desperately). Miss Warriner! 

Miss Warriner. Yes ? 

Archer {leading her to the chairs). Do sit down 
here. No — this chair, it's more comfortable — with 
this fat pillow behind you. So. I've got to talk to 

you. Do you know, I never met a girl that I 

Confound it, there goes that telephone again! 
{Rushes to the desk and answers the telephone.) Mrs. 
Plympton? Yes, there are some letters. But don't 
bother to come down for them. I'll send them up to 
you. I'm expecting one of the bell-boys back at any 
time within the next half hour. The only trouble is 
they're such obliging little fellows about running 
errands for the guests that I never can tell when I'm 
going to see them again. — No, please don't take the 
trouble to come down yourself. — No, no, I beg of 
you I {He places the receiver on the hook, and turns 
with tragic appeal to Miss Warriner.) Confound it 
all, Miss Warriner! She's coming down! Our tete- 
a-tete is spoiled, and I was just going to say to you 

Miss Warriner. Well? 

Archer. I was just going to ask you if you think 
less of me because I'm putting in my vacation as clerk 
in a hotel? 

Miss Warriner. No, I like you for it. I think it's 
fine. Lots of men do what you're doing, if they've got 
the stuff in them. It makes me sick to hear Mrs. 
Amidol run on about her cigarette- reeking son and 
Mrs. Plympton talk about her log-rolling husband 



8 "the seashell'' 

(Mrs. Plympton comes in^ She is middle-aged, and 
self-important.) 

Mrs. Plympton. Now I'll take my letters, if you 
please, Mr. Archer. Good-morning, Miss Warriner. 

Miss Warriner. Good-morning, Mrs. Plympton. 

Mrs. Plympton. Rather early, aren't you? But 
the early bird catches the worm, don't it? I always 
have to get down early, or I find Mrs. Amidol sitting 
in my chair. If she gets right up out of it I don't so 
much mind, because that dusts it off. But sometimes 
she don't get up, and it's the only spot where I can be 
sure of getting the morning sun for two hours. And 
the doctor says it's imperative for my health to sit in 
the sun for two hours every morning. (Waddles off 
to her chair with her letters, and sits there like a fixed 
appointment. Simmering over her letters.) The dry 
cleaner — I paid that, I know I paid that—** Please 
send remittance " — The impudence ! Talk about add- 
ing insult to injury! Oh, here's what I wanted! I 
thought Ferdy'd clean forgotten his loving little wifie. 
" Dear Emma. How are you ? Do you need any 
money ? " 

{Mumbles away into oblivion as she reads the letter.) 

Archer {to Miss Warriner). Now you see! 
The last chance is gone. She's good for all morning. 
I can hear the others coming out from breakfast. And 
I'm tied right here to the desk. And you're leaving 
at noon. Not a chance ! Not a chance ! 

Miss Warriner. Don't be downhearted, Mr. 
Archer. We'll hope for better luck presently. I've 
got to desert the firing-line for a little while now, be- 
cause there are dozens of — millions of things I've got 
to do to help Mother get off; but I'll come back. 
Never fear! And in the meantime please make out 
our bill, won't you ? {Starts to go out. ) 

Archer. Wait a minute, please! I — that is, 

we How can we make out a bill to you for what 

you owe us, when we owe you everything ? 



"THE SEASHELL" 9 

Miss Warriner. Fm sure you don't owe me any- 
thing. 

Archer. YouVe been the life of the place. You'll 
take all the sunshine with you when you go. 

Miss Warriner. You've kissed the Blarney- stone, 
Mr. Archer. You say that to every girl who comes 
here. 

Archer. Not on your life I don't. 

Miss Warriner {pensively), I'm sure Fve had an 
awfully good time here. You've been so kind to me. 
I think I'd have passed away from boredom if you 
hadn't been here to walk and talk to me. 

Archer {eagerly). Do you really mean it? I'm 
so glad if you feel that way. I suppose the guests have 
been scandalized because you condescended to be nice 
to the poor but honest hotel clerk from Harvard who 
hasn't yet put the auto in his autobiography. 

Miss Warriner. I'm afraid I don't care much 
what these old hens think. {They both laugh.) Not 
that I have anything against Mrs. Plympton and Mrs. 
Amidol. But they just can't see things my way. Mrs. 
Plympton sits in the sun only because it's medicine and 
the doctor says she must. And Mrs. Amidol lives from 
one meal to the next, and the motor-bus is all the music 
she knows, and Professor Chalkley has spent most of 
his life at the blackboard, and his relaxation in summer 
is to water the flowers and wind up the clock and read 
the thermometer and the Boston Transcript. And 
Doctor Thorax is like the man the poet wrote about, 
who would botanize upon his mother's grave. He's so 

grubby and dusty and dry Well, I've got to go 

up to Mother now, or we'll never get off — — 

Archer. Please 

Miss Warriner. Honestly, I haven't a minute. I 
must fly. As soon as everything's in the trunks, 1*11 
come back to get the bill and say good-bye. And I 
hope we shall have a few minutes to ourselves. 

(Archer, sighing heavily, goes behind the desk, opens 
the hotel register, and distractedly makes memoranda 
on a Mt of paper., Mrs. Amidol enters. She is 



lo "the seashell'* 

about Mrs. Plympton's age, garrulously fussy and 
consequential. ) 

Mrs. Amidol. Good-morning, Mr. Archer. Any 
mail for me? (Archer hands her several letters.) 
Oh, I*m so glad to get this ! It's from my dear friend 
Mrs. Hickup. Do you know, Mr. Archer, there's an 
i-deal friendship between that woman and I, just like 
there was between David and Goliath, or Scylla and 
Charybdis? There is. It's a regular Plutonic friend- 
ship, that's what I call it. There's Mrs. Plympton, 
sitting in my chair. Sometimes I get so mad at that 
woman I could slap her. She knows perfectly well 
it's my chair. (Goes up to Mrs. Plympton.) Good- 
morning, dear. (Kisses her.) 

Mrs. Plympton. Good-morning, dear. I was just 
reading a letter from my husband. He says he may 
be down here for the week end, and then again he may 
not. I wish I knew what he was going to do. Be- 
cause of course I have to make my own plans. You 
know how men are. I can't do anything with Ferdy. 
I can't even get him to wear his rubbers. 

Mrs. Amidol (taking the chair beside Mrs. Plymp- 
ton). I have a letter from my son Cyril. He's such 
a dear boy ! I just wish you could hear him sing ! He 
knows such cute songs. One of them is ** If you're 
Thirsty, Kiss the Baby," and another one is " Peeping 
Thro' the Knotholes of Papa's Wooden Leg." He 
writes me that he can roll cigarettes with one hand 
now; he took lessons from the man who had the part 
of the Sheriff in that Western play, you know, " The 
Warmed-Up." Cyril and I have been such pals ever 
since he was a baby. He's never kept a single secret 
from his mother. I don't say it because I'm his mother, 
Emma, but he really was a most unusual and original 
child. I remember when he was a little tike I was 
telling him the story about Achilles — you remember 
about Achilles, how his mother dipped him in the 
Stinks and he became intolerable ? Well, what do you 
think Cyril said ? 



THE SEASHELL H 

Mrs. Plympton (helplessly). I don't know, I*m 
sure. 

Mrs. Amidol. He said (Just at this juncture. 

Archer, at the desk, slams the hotel register together 
with the utmost vehemence. Bell-hoy returns and 
whispers to Archer.) Great Caesar's ghost, what 
was that ? 

Archer. I beg your pardon if I startled you, Mrs. 
Amidol. I wanted to kill a wasp that was crawling 
around on the book. 

Mrs. Amidol. That reminds me, Mr. Archer. 
Speaking of wasps, the only place where I can stand 
up in my room is in the dormouse window, and there's 
a mudwasp's nest in it. You won't think I'm com- 
plaining, will you? 

Archer. Oh, no. Madam ! I hear so many room- 
ers, one more or less doesn't matter. 

Mrs. Amidol (to Mrs. Plympton). I want Cyril 
to be familiar with those old Bible stories. That's why 
when we were in Rome I took him to see the wolf that 
fed Romeo and Juliet. Do you know, my dear, the 
rector came around the other day and said that Cyril 
was lazy, and was just a cucumber of the earth? I 
got real mad. I told him I wasn't going to stand there 
and let him cast asparagus on my only son that way. I 
told him that I guessed Cyril knew the Nicotene Creed 
as well as he did. Why, Cyril can tell you all about 
how Samson slew the Philippines with the Axe of the 
Apostles. 

Mrs. Plympton (mildly). Speaking of complaints, 
my dear, I'm not the sort of woman who makes a 
fuss, or there are certain things I might find fault with. 
Now, I think scenery does add so much. But what do 
you get here at this hotel? Just the sea, — and it's so 
flat and monotonous ! I don't call sitting and looking 
out at the sea getting a change. It may be some peo- 
ple's idea of a change, but it isn't mine. I was read- 
ing in a book the other day where this man said he 
" hated an anonymous landscape." That's me, all over. 
I get a good deal of my pleasure in life from seeing 



12 "THE SEASHELL" 

things. I like to see signs up, telling where you are, 
or where you're going, or some nice place for you to 
want to go to. Even advertising signs are better than 
nothing. I love to see something being poured out of 
a bottle by electricity, or letters flashing up and down 
like a caterpillar in a hurry. I like to see these big 
painted signs of cows and things from the railway 
trains. I think when the landscape's nothing but 
green, just one plain green of trees and grass, or all 
that salt water out there, it kind of gets on your nerves 
to keep on looking at it day after day. 

Mrs. Amidol. We always used to go to a place 
called Greenleaf Park for the summer. But I quit 
going there on account of our dog, Tiny. They said 
they couldn't have Tiny running at large. I said to 
them, I said, I never heard of such foolishness. " Look 
at Tiny," I said, " and tell me how you think a dog the 
size of she could possibly run at large !" Good-morning, 
Doctor Thorax. Good-morning, Professor Chalkley. 

(Doctor Thorax, black-bearded, and Professor 
Chalkley, bald and white-bearded, the latter with 
a big book under his arm, enter at a fraternally scien- 
tific amble. Each gets a rolled-up nezvspaper at the 
desk.) 

Mrs. Plympton. O Doctor Thorax! You're just 
the man I have been wanting to see ! Here's a letter 
from the President of our Club, and she wants me to 
read a paper at the Annual Resuscitation Meeting in 
the fall, on the subject, " Is Temperance to be secured 
by Denatured Alcohol or by Local Option ? " Now 
you're going to tell me just what to say. You know 
you are. That's a dear, kind man. Won't you? 

Dr. Thorax (nervously). Oh, I'm afraid that's 
out of my line. Madam, really, I 

Mrs. Plympton. What is your line. Doctor? 

Doctor Thorax (with enthusiasm). Bugs. Espe- 
cially musca domestica. — There's one now ! 

(Doctor Thorax, using his rolled-up newspaper as a 
club, rushes violently about in pursuit of the insect.) 



"the seashell'^ 13 

mS Sror^ } (- «'«-)• What is it, Doctor? 

(Professor Chalkley has seated himself in one of 
the chairs y and is immersed in his hook, with his hack 
to the others.) 

Doctor Thorax. I'll get him yet! — There he is! 
{Rushes toward the ohlivious Chalkley, reaches over 
the back of the chair, and deals him a resounding 
thwack on the crown of the head. Triumphantly.) 
Killed him! 

Professor Chalkley {springing to his feet, splut- 
tering with indignation). Confound you, sir ! Doctor 
Thorax, I'm astonished at you, sir! What do you 
think you're doing? Maybe it's some infantile sort of 
war game? I'm — I'm — I confess, sir, I don't know 
what to say ! This is an outrage ! 

Doctor Thorax {solemnly). It was a fly. One 
now means millions later in the summer. 

Professor Chalkley. I accept your apology, sir,- 
in the spirit in which it is offered. 

Mrs. Amidol {with a nervous laugh). I was afraid 
it was a mouse. 

Mrs. Plympton. I was afraid it was a bat. 

{They all seat themselves again, Mrs. Amidol and 
Mrs. Plympton produce knitting materials. Pro- 
fessor Chalkley reads his hook, and Doctor 
Thorax holds several hottles of preserved insects to 
the light to admire their contents. The hell-hoys 
have stopped studying and now talk in undertones. 
Miss Warriner, wearing her hat, the veil looped 
round the brim of it, reappears.) 

Miss Warriner {to Archer). Is the bill ready, 
please, Mr. Archer? 

(Archer hands her the hill — it is a long one. She 
leans over the desk from the front, he from the 
rear; their heads come close; he points out the sev- 
eral items with a pencil. Later, with occasional 



^^ ''the seashell" 

signs of impatience toward the garrulity of tJi^, 
others, they examine the register together, and she 
recognizes names.) 

Mrs. Amidol. I try to get a room on the ground 
floor every place I go. Cyril has promised me that if 
I'll buy him a farm I can sleep in the cellary bed. I 
always want to be as low down as I can. I'm so 
afraid of fire. I don't like it at all up where I am now 
in this hotel. 

Mrs. Plympton. Oh, don't talk to me about fire ! 
It makes me nervous. I'm always imagining I smell 
smoke. And I'm on the fifth floor. 

Mrs. Amidol. When Cyril was forty-seven 

Mrs. Plympton {astonished). Forty-seven? 

Mrs. Amidol. Forty-seven months old, I was gO" 
ing to say, he got burnt when his father kissed him 
good-night. My husband is dreadfully absent-minded, 
you know, and he was smoking, and forgot to take the 
cigar out of his mouth. Since then I've made him 
smoke a pipe. Another time when we stood Cyril up 
in his little high-chair to say grace, he fell into the 
soup and got scalded. I remember we had clam-broth 
that day. Clam-broth splashes like anything. You 
know what they say, '* It's a burnt child that dreads 
its own father," and I supposed after that Cyril would 
be cured of ever wanting to play with matches. But 
he wasn't. I suppose it's been my own fault though, 
because when he was a baby, so I could see him in the 
dark, I used to put on his face some of this yellow 
stuff that shines 

Mrs. Plympton. You mean russet leather polish? 

Mrs. Amidol. No, I mean Phosphate — phos — Bos- 
phorus. Yes, that's it, Bosphorus. My husband says 
the ships have been trying to get through it in the war. 
You know, it sticks to the ship's sides. I've seen it 
looking down from the deck. I guess you have too. 
Well, as I was going to say when you interrupted me, 
I used to smear Cyril's lips with it, so I could see 
where to put his bottle. And I suppose that gave him 
a taste for matches. When I see all the harm that's 



''the seashell ' 15 

come to happy homes from playing with fire, I'm sure 
I never would have the heart to be one of these match- 
making mothers. It's mothers like that who have 
daughters that get themselves arrested for scorching. 
I tell you, Emma, if this hotel once started to burn 
down, the only thing to do would be to get right out. 
That's what I've always said. It would burn right 
down to the ground in a few minutes, and there's 
no knowing what it would do after that. 

Mrs. Plympton. Don't talk that way, Hannah. It 
gives me the cold shivers. I can imagine I see flames 
and smell smoke already. 

Mrs. Amidol. What would be the first thing you'd 
save if the house did take fire ? 

Mrs. Plympton. I wouldn't stop to save anything, 
I'd rush right out of the house. 

(Archer, as though suddenly smitten with a happy 
idea, makes a signal to both bell-boys to approach. 
Miss Warriner, goes to the other end of the desk, 
picks up a railway guide, and becomes absorbed in 
its contents. - Archer goes through a lively panto- 
mime with the bell-boys, in which with a deal of 
whispering he seems to be indicating the dimensions 
of a large pail, and the possibility of putting a num- 
ber of things in it. He then hands them some 
matches, and points to the doorway into the adjoin- 
ing room. The two boys go out with signs of 
amusement. Miss Warriner has gained no inkling 
of the meaning of the transaction. She now brings 
the book of time-tables to Archer for explanation. 
Presently, with the book, she seats herself on the 
vacated settee of the bell-boys. Archer fusses 
about behind the desk.) 

Doctor Thorax (to Professor Chalkley). Did 
you hear the ridiculous statement that young man at 
the desk made yesterday about the proper way to 
catch a whale? 

Professor Chalkley. I don't suppose he ever 
caught one in his life. 



l6 '*THE SEASHELlT-*/ 

Doctor Thorax. I have my own grave'doubts oil 
the subject. In any case, I think the method he pro-' 
posed was utterly impracticable. 

Professor Chalkley. What was it ? 

Doctor Thorax. He came up to me yesterday while 
I was in pursuit of a somewhat rare specie5'of whiteling 
butterfly, and he said to me, " Doctor, do you know the 
recipe for catching a whale ? " and when I said " No," 
he answered, " First you get him interested ; and then 
you kick him in the face ! " 

Professor Chalkley. Perfectly preposterous! 
Mathematically speaking, that would be an indetermin- 
able locus. 

Mrs. Amidol. You do collect locusts too, don't 
you, Doctor? 

Doctor Thorax. Suppose the whale should open 
his mouth at the wrong time ? 

Professor Chalkley. Yesterday when I was in 
swimming — or it might be more accurate to say soak- 
ing — ^he asked me a similar preposterous question. He 
asked me whether clam-digging was to be classified as 
fishing or as agriculture. 

Mrs. Amidol. I do love to listen to two scientific 
men talk. I think science is such a wonderful thing, 
don't you? How do you suppose we ever got along 
without it? 

Mrs. Plympton. Hannah, as sure as I'm sitting 
here, I smell smoke. Doctor Thorax, don't you smell 
smoke? Professor Chalkley, don't you smell smoke? 

Professor Chalkley. No, no, Madam, — be calm, 
be calm ! You have a very vivid imagination. 

Doctor Thorax. It's probably something cooking. 
You can nearly always smell something cooking here 
at " The Seashell." That's one of the reasons why I 
keep on coming to the place year after year. 

Mrs. Amidol. What was I talking about a little 
while ago? Oh, yes, I was telling you about Cyril! 
I was going to say, I had Cyril learn all about the stars, 
so he could pick out one consternation after another 
through the periscope. I think he knows most of the 



*'the seashell'' 17 

stars in the Great White Way now. At least his 
father says he does. I was going to get him a boat, 
but I heard his father say that he was getting tired of 
baiHng him out. So I got him an automobile, because 
Cyril said he could easily prove an alibino if he got 
arrested. Or maybe it was an alkali. Anyway, I 
know it's something you have to prove if they arrest 
you. Cyril can drive a car awfully fast. He's always 
been fond of driving all sorts of things. I got him a 
tool chest when he was only fifty-three months old, and 
he used to spend a lot of his time driving nails into 
the nursery floor. He can drive his car so fast that 
even when the wind is with you it seems to be blowing 
the other way. Sometimes he gets going so fast that 
he has to run into a telegraph pole to stop. I really 
don't think that's safe. I'm so afraid of his getting 
tangled up with one of those live wires when the pole 
falls down. 

Mrs. Plympton. Live wires, did you say? I made 
up a riddle about a live wire the other day. I told it 
to the ladies at the Club, and they said they thought it 
was very good. They said I ought to send it to 
" Life." 

Mrs. Amidol. What was it ? 

Mrs. Plympton. You know Ananias, the liar, the 
man in the Bible that gave the name to the Club that 
Roosevelt wanted everybody to belong to ? Well, you 
know, he had a wife, Sapphira, and she was a liar too, 
so the riddle I made up is this, and see if you don't 
think it's good. What is the difference between an 
electrical engineer and Ananias? Give it up? The 
electrical engineer has a life wire and Ananias had a 
wife liar. (Mrs. Amidol looks very glum.) Why 
don't you laugh? You see, you sort of slur over the 
V, — ^you say life wire, instead of live wire, and that 
makes it come all right. Life wire — wife liar. 

Mrs. Amidol. I don't think that's funny at all. 

Mrs. Plympton. Professor Chalkley, you think 
it's funny, don't you ? 

Professor Chalkley. Think what's funny? 



i8 ''the seashell" 

Mrs. Plympton. My riddle. 

Professor Chalkley. I didn't hear it. 

Mrs. Amidol. Why, Emma said, — I mean, Mrs. 
Plympton said, if an epileptical engineer named 
Aconitis had a live wire for a wife 

Mrs. Plympton. That wasn't what I said at all. 
You never do get things straight, Hannah. (Sniffing 
violently.) I smell smoke! 

(The bell-boys return and excitedly donfer in whispers 
with Archer. Archer comes out in front of the 
desk. ) 

Archer. Ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Plympton un- 
doubtedly does smell smoke. There is a fire. But 
there is no occasion for the slightest alarm — even for a 
still alarm. The house is fireproof, but not water- 
proof, so we do not wish to call the firemen in. We 
have plenty of grenades, and these young men here 
with me are licensed grenadiers — the original Two 
Grenadiers. If you'll all just file quietly out on the 
verandah, without making any disturbance that might 
excite the other guests, we'll have the fire extinguished 
in a jiffy, and when all is over I'll come out there and 
let you know. 

Mrs. Amidol. Can't we even go to our rooms to 
get our things ? 

Mrs. Ply^mpton. No, no, my dear; things can al- 
ways wait; it's people that count. Safety first. The 
boys will get our valuables, if it seems to be necessary, 
won't you, boys ? 

Professor Chalkley. Let us in any case keep our 
heads. Let us make a decorous, dignified and un- 
flurried exit — I have no reason to doubt the statement 
of the young man that he will summon us promptly 
when the danger is over. This is merely a pre- 
cautionary measure. 

Doctor Thorax. Please look out for a jar of 
cyanide of potassium on the shelf in my closet. It's 
not always easy these days to procure chemicals. The 
market price has soared amazingly. — After you, my 
dear Madam. 



"the seashell" 19 

(Exeunt omnes, except Archer, Miss Warriner and 
the hell-hoys, hy the door at the left leading to the 
verandah.) 

Miss Warriner. I'm not going. Fm captain of 
a basket-ball team, and I guess I can throw things at 
the fire, too. 

Archer. Bully for you ! 

Mrs. Amidol (turning in the doorway, as she goes 
out last of all). Heroic girl ! You're the bravest girl 
I've ever heard of since Cassie B. Yankee ! 

(Exit.) 

Archer. Boys, go and get the fire and take it out 
into the back yard. It's served its purpose. 

(The hoys go out.) 

Miss Warriner. What under the sun do you mean ? 

Archer. They made it in a tin pail, and then they 
put the tin pail in the fireplace in the writing-room. 
A few newspapers, and Professor Chalkley's rubbers, 
and some damp seaweed, and some kerosene. 

Miss Warriner. Now what did you do that for? 

Archer. Simply and solely so that we could have 
the place absolutely to ourselves for a few minutes be- 
fore your train goes. 

(As he utters these words, to the hlissful unc'onscious^ 
ness of both, the windows have heen filling with an 
interested audience. The two continue to gase at 
each other. Then she looks down.) 

Miss Warriner. Don't tell those people out there 
that there isn't any fire for — for a little while, will 
you, — Tom ? 

Archer. Lesley! (Takes her in his arms.) I 

swear, you're the first girl I ever Confound it, 

there they all are looking in at the windows! 



curtain 



Successful Plays for All Girls 

In Selecting Your Next Play Do Not Overlook This Li«t 

YOUNG DOCTOR DEVINE. A Farce in Two Acts. 
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SISTER MASONS. A Burlesque In One Act, by Frank 
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of Masonry. Some women profess to learn the secrets of a 
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and they institute a similar organization. 

A COMMANDING POSITION. A Farcical Enter^ 
tainment, by Amelia San ford. For seven female char- 
acters and ten or more other ladies and children. Time, one 
hour. Costumes, modern. Scenes, easy interiors and one street 
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Marian tries hospital nursing, college settlement work and 
school teaching, but decides to go back to housework. 

HOW A WOMAN KEEPS A SECRET, A Comedy 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For ten female characters. 
Time, half an hour. Scene, an easy interior. Costumes, modern. 
Mabel Sweetly has just become engaged to Harold, but It's "the 
deepest kind of a secret." Before announcing it they must win 
the approval of Harold's uncle, now in Europe, or lose a possible 
ten thousand a year. At a tea Mabel meets her dearest friend, 
Maude sees Mabel has a secret, she coaxes and Mabel tells her. 
But Maude lets out the secret in a few minutes to another 
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THE OXFORD AFFAIR. A Comedy in Three Acts, 
by Josephine H. Cobb and Jennie E. Paine. For eight female 
characters. Plays one hour and three-quarters. Scenes, inter- 
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play is located at a summ.er resort. Alice Graham, in order to 
chaperon herself, poses as a widow, and Miss Oxford first claims 
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THE PENN PUBUSHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



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17 14 De Lancey Street PMkdalphit 




